


Silent Night, Loud Heart(s)

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Other, Realization, all the exciting confessions happen offscreen, also there's a little unreliable narrator in there if you look, aziraphale has an epiphany, aziraphale knows nothing about plants, i admit i put most fics in the bookshop because i feel like we know that space better, sorry about that, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 7 for the fantastic advent calendar of prompts.It is a silent night in the bookshop when Aziraphale comes to a realization. And a decision.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 16
Kudos: 155





	Silent Night, Loud Heart(s)

It is nine at night, and the bookshop is silent. The angel who inhabits it is sat in his armchair with a book spread open across his lap, staring at the pages before him.

There are no inhales, and no exhales, as he has quite forgotten to breathe. There is no creak of wood, as he is not shifting in the chair. No muted murmur of fabric dragging across fabric or skin across paper, as he is not turning the pages by hand.

There is no soft rustle of paper, as he is not actually turning the pages _at all_.

For all his plans to settle in and read this evening, he has made remarkably little progress.

He had _intended_ to. Had, in fact, specifically said such to Crowley that very afternoon, whilst shuffling books and pointedly ignoring a customer waiting with unusual politeness at the till. Had set the book in question aside - the latest installment of a regency romance series he particularly enjoys - before turning to dispatch the customer with a very apologetic, “I’m quite sorry, we’re closed for inventory, and the till isn’t functional; do have a lovely evening.”

The bewildered customer had left, the sign had flipped to ‘closed’ of its own accord, and Crowley had asked after his dinner plans.

He’d regaled Crowley with a summary of the series thus far over sushi and sake, mused on the possibilities for this new volume. The demon had been, as always, a pleasant conversationalist; he’d made the bare minimum of good-natured fun ( _“Sounds to me like they’re much the same, angel, all that pining and forbidden love and whatnot. Aren’t you getting bored?” “Bored? Oh, no, my dear boy, I couldn’t possibly. It’s all been so well written, and so powerfully emotional…”_ ), and no shortage of encouraging noises and nods. He’d handled the bill, left a generous tip -

\- and dropped Aziraphale at the bookshop with a smile and a comment about checking in on the plants, to drive off into the evening.

Which had been fine, at first. Aziraphale had bustled about making tea - a cup of chamomile with lemon for himself, and Assam with an unholy amount of sugar for Crowley - set aside the whiskey for after, and settled in to read until the demon returned.

Except: he hasn’t returned.

The book sits on his lap, open to page one. He’d made careful study of the acknowledgments page, as always; turned to the opening chapter, and glanced at the clock to see how much longer Crowley might be. Paused.

The book sits on his lap, abandoned; instead Aziraphale is staring, not at the page, but at the door, willing it to open. Waiting for Crowley to saunter inside, make some excuse about traffic or a poorly behaved philodendron, and sprawl himself on the sofa with the sort of casual elegance others can only dream at. Waiting for Crowley to make a joke about Aziraphale oversweetening his tea, as if the angel hasn’t made careful study of the demon’s preferences, doesn’t know he only pretends at liking everything black and bitter.

(Like his soul, Crowley jokes. Well. The black part is true, for tea. The bitter is assuredly _not_ \- for either.)

Waiting for Crowley to sweep back into his shop, settle down, settle in; to while away the evening, and eventually fall asleep draped across the sofa, where Aziraphale can watch him in the wee hours of the morning, pretense of reading abandoned, and drink in the relaxed spread of Crowley’s limbs and the soft smile that graces his face.

Waiting for Crowley to come back. To come _home_.

It is ten at night, and the bookshop is silent. The angel who inhabits it is sat in his armchair, book set aside on the table, now staring at the door and the telephone in turns.

There is probably nothing wrong. Crowley has so many plants - he’d tried to count them, that night after the world didn’t end, but they hadn’t stood still well enough for counting. He’d never seen such wriggly greenery! Just like their caretaker, who had been uncharacteristically stiff and scowling beside him, due, in all likelihood, to the particularly trying day - week - decade they’d had and the last looming threat ahead of them.

Probably it just takes a while to look after all those plants. Aziraphale hasn’t the faintest clue what plants _need_ \- the garden at the Dowling estate had gotten along just fine without him having to do much of anything - but Crowley clearly has to provide them with _something_ , given his cryptic comment about checking in on them. Water, perhaps; he can’t imagine they see much water, indoors. Watering all those plants probably takes more time than he thinks.

Probably.

But there’s a creeping sense of unease stealing into his chest.

What if it doesn’t, though, take time? What if Crowley - dear, considerate Crowley, no matter what he pretends - had misunderstood? He’d been reserved, a bit, over dinner, although he’d opened up after a few cups of sake, had almost been his relaxed, casual self on the drive to the shop.

But what if he had misunderstood Aziraphale’s plans for the evening, and assumed they _didn’t_ include him? Assumed he wouldn’t be welcome?

They haven’t talked about the things that have changed since the world failed to end. They haven’t discussed the way the world is different, now, with Heaven and Hell backed off and the two of them on their own side. He hadn’t thought they needed to - Crowley has spent the past months practically glued to Aziraphale’s side, falling asleep on the sofa in the shop most nights, barring the rare occasion he goes back to the flat to handle…something. Plants? It’s always so unclear, but he’s twitchy about it, so Aziraphale is content not to pry; Crowley will tell him eventually. He always has.

Aziraphale is starting to suspect he might need to _ask_.

In fact, Aziraphale is starting to suspect he might need to broach quite a few topics.

Just because they’ve spent their entire history operating under unspoken realities doesn’t mean they still have to - doesn’t mean they still _should_. There are rather a lot of things he’s realizing he’d like to say, now that they have the freedom to speak aloud what they hadn’t dared before; things he wants Crowley to hear, things he _needs_ Crowley to hear, with a growing sense of urgency. 

Crowley has always been so careful to keep to the pace Aziraphale sets, but he is coming to the realization that he hasn’t made it clear the pace can _change_ now. Should change, rather, _must_ change - with their head offices out of the way, and the end of the world canceled, the weight of all those years of waiting is starting to chafe.

Aziraphale stares at the telephone for a long, heavy moment. Then, with a decisiveness he hasn’t felt since the day he handed the flaming sword to Adam, he moves. In moments, he has the receiver to one ear, is listening to the familiar buzz as it connects.

“Something wrong, angel?”

The concern in Crowley’s voice warms Aziraphale down to his toes; he has to take a deep breath, the first in hours, to settle his fluttering heart. “Not at all, my dear.”

A pause, then, “Thought you were reading.”

Aziraphale eyes the book he had been so anticipating. Thinks about the things he’s been enjoying about the series - the longing, the pining, the emotional catharsis of every stolen moment shared by two people who should, by all societal convention, never be together. The way his heart aches at the way they have to pretend at nothing more than vague acquaintanceship. 

“It isn’t holding my attention very well,” he admits.

“Too much of the same?”

 _More than I realized_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. _More than I had admitted, even to myself, before this moment._ Instead he allows, “I might need a break.”

It isn’t a lie. He might need a lot of things, a break among them, but the thing he needs most is to not be alone anymore.

“Never thought I’d see the day _you_ needed a break from reading.” Crowley is laughing; it sparkles down the phone line. “Has the world ended for real this time, and I didn’t notice?”

That uneasy feeling in his chest has gone, has grown wings, has transformed into a fluttering thing. Anticipatory. Excited. “Yes, well -”

“Need a distraction, then? I can be right over; there’s a nice bottle of port I’ve been meaning to bring -”

“No,” Aziraphale answers without thinking, and the warmth from the other end of the line shuts off abruptly. If Crowley comes here there is a not insignificant chance they will settle into old routines, fall into old habits. But if Aziraphale goes _there_ …

He hastens to add, “I was - I was thinking about your plants.”

“…what about my plants?”

“Well you needed to - to see to them, isn’t that right? So perhaps. Well. Would you mind terribly if - if I came over to yours, instead? It’s just that I’d love to see them, too.”

There is a silence, then the inrush of breath on the other end of the line, as if Crowley has just remembered he can breathe despite not needing to.

“It doesn’t have to be right now,” Aziraphale adds, just in case he’s wrong, in case he’s miscalculated. “I just thought -”

“Yeah, angel.” There is a wondering note to Crowley’s voice. It’s careful and guarded, but unmistakably there. “You can come see the plants. Any - anytime you like.”

It is eleven at night, and the bookshop is silent. The angel who inhabits it is - not there.

Instead, he is in a demon’s Mayfair flat, port and plants forgotten. They are speaking, now, of all the things they weren’t free to say before. Things they both needed to say; things they needed each other to hear. Things that are finally, _finally_ being said out loud. 

There is no more waiting. The pace has changed.

It is eleven at night, and the bookshop is silent, but the flat across town is loud with love.


End file.
